Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK1DA8BZ0218WMF4JGA76P8

The rain slicked the colorful plastic slide, turning the backyard of the suburban fortress into a treacherous swamp of discarded streamers and deflated balloons. Molly crouched behind a large inflatable T-Rex, her black tactical gear soaking up the damp night air, while Bill adjusted his ski mask, which was decorated with a clumsy patch of glitter glue he had insisted was necessary for camouflage. They stared at the prize: a mountain of wrapped boxes堆积 under the patio awning, guarded only by a sleeping golden retriever and the lingering scent of cheap pizza. This was the big score, the kind of job that would set them up for life, or at least until the sugar rush from the stolen candy wore off. "Do you think the dog bites?" Bill whispered, his voice trembling slightly as he eyed the slumbering beast. "It's a golden retriever, Bill. Its primary instinct is to fetch, not to maim," Molly hissed back, checking her lock-picking set which she had swapped for a set of oversized plastic spoons earlier that day. "Besides, we have the distraction." Bill reached into his pocket and pulled out a squeaky toy shaped like a rubber chicken. He squeezed it once, testing the volume, and winced at the ear-piercing shriek that echoed in the quiet yard. "That seems loud. Maybe too loud." "Perfection is the enemy of progress," she muttered, creeping forward on her hands and knees. The mud squelched beneath her gloves, a sound that seemed deafening in the silence. She reached the edge of the patio, eyeing the sliding glass door. It was locked, naturally, but the mechanism was a child-proof latch, the kind designed to stop a toddler, not a professional criminal with twenty years of experience in high-stakes larceny. "Hand me the credit card." "I thought we were using the spoons?" Bill asked, scrambling forward to join her, his boots slipping on a stray piece of confetti. He nearly took out a stack of paper plates before catching himself on the garden gnome. "The spoons are for the cake later. The card is for the door. Keep up, Bill, we are losing daylight, or rather, night-light." She slid the plastic card into the track, jiggling it with practiced ease until the latch clicked open with a satisfying snap. The door slid inward, revealing the holy grail: a room filled with toys, games, and enough sugary treats to induce a coma. "Look at all that loot," Bill breathed, his eyes widening behind the mask. "Do you think they have those little chocolate coins?" "Focus on the presents, Bill. The coins are amateur hour." Molly stepped inside, her boots leaving muddy prints on the pristine hardwood. She began grabbing boxes, tossing them to Bill who fumbled each one like a clumsy waiter. "Careful with that one! It says 'Fragile' and it's shaped like a drone." "What if it's a trap?" Bill paused, holding a rectangular box suspended in mid-air. "What if it's an alarm?" "The only alarm here is the one going off in my head telling me we should have stuck to robbing banks," Molly snapped, snatching the box from his hands. "Now move. We have exactly four minutes before the parents wake up from their wine-induced slumber." "But what about the dog?" "If it wakes up, throw it the chicken and run." "That seems cruel." "It's business, Bill. Now grab the big one with the bow and let's get out of here before someone asks why two adults in ski masks are stealing birthday gifts."